
ππππ ππππππ’ πππππππ ππ:@discardedPasts The clock strikes twelve. You're not alive, you don't feel things at least you think you wouldn't. But as the box cracks the wood snaps the felt tears You felt pain as if your entire being is being torn apart. Every moment is excruciatingly agonizing the felt of the box which holds so many memories for so so long terrors into shards It's pitch black fabric falls The pieces of wood and steel that hold the box together bend and snap the wood cracking and splinters the steel bending and breaking rusting away. The memories flowing all gathered as one leave the box, they're too jumbled to understand they're too jumbled to do anything Just rot. The clock strikes twelve And now you wait #gore #body-horror β β β β β β β β β β πΌπππππ’ πππ
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